Within the whispering confines of the dimensionless days,
where shadows script tales in unspoken tongues,
I wander reverie-laden pathways -
absent, yet profoundly present in their echo.
Repeat again, repeat once more,
the lilt of silence shaped like forgotten doors,
swing perpetually through the void,
for absence is the dance,
and time the silent conductor.
Of dreams that rise like phantoms, dew-drenched and sighing,
stitched softly onto the fabric of night’s embrace,
I ask, where lies their source, their core,
but in the echo of paths
once trodden, now silent as space?